Or Musical Instruments Like the Guillotine…
Most people go to sleep at night. My insomnia screams like a leaf-blower of blinding blizzard hiding in the Siberian cupboard’s rattling snowplow. It grabs my keys then races along the freeway in a retro shoot ‘um up Western then shouts a loud bugaloo down Broadway using lip-liner sirens. It’s made of steel tacks mixed in the nine inch nails and rattles every ordinary tin roof scattering fluffy pillow feathers. It has no smitten eye piece but a starry sledge hammer of acid rock amplifier plugged into my tumbling dice. And when it really gets angry it smashes my glasses of...
Read MoreRefashioned, Using Suede Juxtapose
Two days later I come to and find wolfs in my flannel sheets and a Czar hiding in my bedroom slippers. I put on a robe to cover-up my balalaikas and stagger to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Here’s the point where you may want to add wind chimes or just a couple of bacchanal sirens taped to the kitchen counter. See, I never make it to the coffee pot. I trip over my oversize dog and land in a drapery crew cut, breaking my commemorate precaution shimmy feather and flashbulb to heaven where I’m cordially greeted by statuesque hype mugging milk and honey on a leash. But this muffler...
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